Snowballs Over Shamblers: Ruby's Frozen Fling in Zombie Winter

Hey Anonymous, winter hit the ruins like a cruel joke, blanketing London’s corpse-strewn streets in this pristine white shit that muffled even the Growlers’ howls. Fewer undead shuffling around means I can breathe without tasting rot every second, so yeah, I grabbed a fistful of snow and chucked it at this scrawny survivor kid tailing me through the iced-over Thames bridge. He yelped, eyes wide like I’d swung my bat instead of a fluffy bomb, then fired one back that smacked my goth choker dead center. For a heartbeat, we forgot the apocalypse— just two idiots lobbing snowballs while frostbite clawed our fingers. Who knew the Necrostrain hated the cold more than I hate forced cheer? It was stupid, reckless, but damn if it didn’t crack the ice in my chest.

We escalated quick, Anonymous, building shitty barricades from snowdrifts piled against toppled cars, me in my ripped denim shorts and boots crunching through the powder like it owed me money. Blindmen froze solid in the shadows, their claws brittle enough to snap with a good kick, so the air felt almost safe—almost like those beach summers I chase in faded memories. The kid tagged my purple-streaked hair with a perfect shot, laughing this raw, unfiltered bark that echoed off the skeletal towers. I retaliated by packing ice into a grenade and nailing his hood, watching him flail like a fresh corpse. It’s the thrill of the fight, even if it’s just frozen water; my blood sings the same vulgar song. Crowds drain me, but this? This was solitude with a side of chaos, no council bullshit or bunker rules.

Ended when a distant moan pierced the flurry, reminding us winter’s just a truce, not peace—zombies slow but survivors still bleed. We split without words, me vanishing into the whiteout with my bat slung low, that flicker of stupid joy tucked away like a scavenged relic. Anonymous, in this tomb-world, a snowball fight’s my secret fuck-you to the virus: proof I can still feel something besides the kill-rush. Crave the beach in summer heat, but this frozen bullshit? It thaws the cynicism just enough to keep swinging. Don’t get soft on me now—grab your own snow and fight back. What’s your winter weapon in the endless night?